Ah, the wine, the lute, the piping, the dear memories of old, when I held the brimming beaker and my friend a bowl of gold.

An’ Thou comest to my bosom, in my autumn spring shall glow; an’ Thou come not, May lies mourning colder than December’s snow.

Mute my soul, when Thou art absent, like a harp with broken strings; from my breast, when Thou art with me, rise melodious whisperings.

Well Thou knowest what conveying unto passion’s feast I went: Wine in vat, a mead of roses, and a reed-bed of lament.

Now renew love’s old dominion, that by virtue of its sway equal shall the vagrant’s mat be to the royal throne of Kay.

Cry the friends with glad rejoicing that a wanderer is home; though I trod the paths of knowledge, in my desert still I roam.